


The Expert

by glittercake



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alien mentions, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Archaeology, Awkwardness, Bucky was born with his foot in his mouth, Flirting, M/M, Meet-Cute, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:28:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26032690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittercake/pseuds/glittercake
Summary: "Hmm." Sam has already taken off his jacket and hung it by the door; he's now just in that tight t-shirt clinging on for dear life around his biceps. He snaps on some protective gloves, circling the table, "How old did you say?""Oh.. uh, I'm twenty-five in March—"Sam's eyebrow goes up, and his tongue wets his mouth corner."You mean the artifact." Bucky flushes bright red in an instant."I mean the artifact." Sam confirms, but he's holding back a smile again.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 171





	The Expert

**Author's Note:**

> kind of based on [this](https://bidoof.tumblr.com/post/149464459818/movie-idea-guy-finds-a-stone-tablet-engraved-with) post

Bucky is a loyal employee of the Reserve of Artifacts and Treasures or R.A.T.—which is bad but not as bad as that tech genius who called his invention B.A.R.F. So. 

His team had been called upon to examine foreign energy fields so deep out in Nevada that Bucky's not sure which way is out anymore.

They've made no worthwhile discoveries despite having been stationed in the desert for over four months now. Bucky's days are tedious and sweaty, his nights are long and hot, and he's bored out of his goddamn mind half the time. 

He's dug up more stray dog bones than he could probably count, and being the enthusiastic newbie he is, he still experiences a bout of unimaginable excitement at the sight of the little white patch in the desert ground before the inevitable let down.

There was that one time that it wasn't a dog bone, and he spent twenty-four hours with his fellow newbies studying the bones only for it to turn out as camel bones. He was at most banking on velociraptor, at the least an ancient ostrich. But camel? Fuck him.

But they keep working and searching and sweating because the radars are off the charts and he'll be damned if he taints his first discovery because he's bored. 

Natasha comes walking out of the base tent with two water bottles. Her forehead is smudged with red sand and sweat, and she groans when she plants herself in the man-dug hole next to Bucky. 

She hands the bottle over, "Drink up, your lips are shot."

Bucky feels at his mouth, and she's right, "Thanks," he says, taking the bottle and downing it in a few long gulps. "Anything interesting on the radars this time?" he says and starts redoing his little hair bun. 

She snorts, "No. But Phillips wants us to start covering the West." Nat gazes out into the distance. There's just glowing yellow heat, almost tangible, and clusters of desert grass, tumbleweeds, and a few weathered logs. She pats Bucky on the shoulder. "ASAP."

"Oh darn," he says, tightening the elastic in his hair, "I was sure this three-meter deep hole was about to turn up some real fascinating shit." He gives her a flat look to mimic his tone.

Natasha gets up, dusts her ass, and then leans over to smudge a pink sunscreen stick on Bucky's cheeks and nose. It's the desert; they might as well look as colorful as they possibly can, right.

"Yeah, well, make sure you pack all that sarcasm too, you'll need it to keep you entertained." 

They pack up their small set up not long after and move it over to the West perimeter. It's the same boring old routine: set up, get the radars going, play some football in the sand, wash up, eat and get back to work. 

Only, this time the radar keeps spiking with inexplicable bouts of energy. 

Bucky doesn't pay it much mind because they've seen it before, so he keeps excavating and dusting and digging well into the afternoon. 

The boredom is about to set in when his shovel hits something with a reverberating pang. 

Nat's head shoots up, and she stares at him with wide green eyes, "The fuck?"

Bucky stares back, because yeah, what the fuck. He retracts the shovel and drives it back gently. The same thing happens, less intense, but a clang resounds again from beneath. 

It's solid, not hollow like the many tin sheets they've unearthed before. There's definitely some weight behind it.

"Oh my god," he stares at the sand, "Oh my—"

Nat abandons her post and gets up, sand and dust crumbling from her pants as she runs, "Call Philips!!! Barnes' got something!" 

Bucky starts extending the hole, puts markers around the object as far as he can, and soon the crew has his workspace condoned off with his own little tent and wind-resistant sails. 

Philips grumbles at the monitors behind him, trying to get a proper reading on the object. At the same time, Bucky works to get it uncovered without a scratch. 

Before long, Bucky surfaces the object, and it's no dog bones alright. They're all staring at a blue-grey tablet, heavy and thick, emitting crazy energy and a dim green glow.

"Ain't that what the ten commandments looked like?" Philips says, perplexed, scratching his beard.

"Same shape, sir," Bucky says, "But this is definitely extraterrestrial."

"You don't say." Philips turns to signal some poor mook to transport him back to base, "Get that thing to the lab, stat," 

The lab is Bucky's favorite place in this goddamn sandbox—it's cool and clean and quiet, and they've got vending machines—but they prove very unhelpful this time. All Bucky receives from them is that they're dealing with some foreign material that seems relatively harmless. There's no explanation for the dim green glow or the scriptures etched in the slab.

"Fine," Phillips says when Bucky reports back the next day, "Get A.S.S. in here to assist." He lights a smoke, busy on his radars, "They got that one Wilson guy, supposed to be the expert on alien scribbles."

Bucky groans as he shuts Phillip's office door because A.S.S. is a squad of severely handsome but smug know-it-alls. The last thing Bucky feels like dealing with on this day when his hair is greasy and damp is some gorgeous jerk. 

* * *

"Why are they called A.S.S. anyway?" Bucky asks later that day, squinting at the descending chopper alongside Nat. 

"Alien Scientific…" she makes a face, "Huh. Dunno." 

"Smart asses?" 

They laugh, Nat elbows him, and it's hilarious until the helicopter lands, and the specialist comes walking out.

He's Black, tallish, probably only a couple of inches shorter than Bucky, got a goatee, and rocking a pair of aviators like he's straight out of a Vulkan magazine. He's wearing a leather jacket, a tight green t-shirt underneath that stretches absurdly across his chest, and a pair of faded blue jeans ripped at the knees. 

It's like a slow-motion shot in some film; he puts his hands on his hips and looks around the place. 

And then he turns around, toward the chopper, and bends to collect his luggage...

Bucky makes a stupid noise, swaying sideways into Nat.

"I think I know why they're called A.S.S. now," he says. 

_ "That's _ the Wilson guy!?" Natasha's head tilts sideways.

Bucky is already making his way over, "God, I hope so."

"Sam Wilson?" he says, sticking his hand out for a shake. 

The man turns, breaks out in a toothy grin, and Bucky's legs suddenly feel like Jell-O. 

"That's me." he looks between Nat and Bucky, smiling, looking like an oasis in this godforsaken desert. And Bucky is parched. "Heard you got some work for me. Is that right?" 

He's bending down again to sign some forms at the base entrance.

"Nhng," Bucky says, trying and failing epically to avert his eyes until Natasha smacks his bicep. "Yes! Yeah. It's uh… it's down here... Ow! I mean in the—" he motions to the underground lab a few meters away. "—the lab." 

Then Sam lowers his glasses, peeks at Bucky over the rim, and a weirdly amused expression flits across his face as he looks at him. "Uh-huh," he says, his mouth corner curling up. 

Self-consciously, Bucky fiddles with his hair, because what is this man looking at him like that for? This is not the time and place for semis, and getting love struck. "Uhm," he stutters, "Shall we…" 

"This way," Natasha says, cocking her head toward the lab cart. She looks mischievously evil. 

The cart's small, so they're squashed together in the back. Nat drives and Bucky tries not to sweat with Sam pressed up to his side like this. The scent of his aftershave mixed with the dusty desert heat, the cool leather against his sun-burnt skin is near intoxicating.

"How long have you been here for?" Sam asks beside him, and Bucky startles out of his inappropriate thoughts. 

"Who me??" he says far too quickly, which is honestly so dumb because Sam is obviously not talking to Natasha. She's driving like an F1 racer. He was clearly talking to Bucky, who sits right beside him.

Luckily Sam still finds something incredibly amusing; he suppresses a smile, politely repeats himself, "Yeah, how long have you worked out here?" 

And he's goddamn dreamy, his lips, the set of his shoulders, his clavicle glinting ever so slightly with either oil or sweat Bucky doesn't know, but it makes him stupid.

"I have. Well, eighteen months." 

Sam makes an impressed face, "Nice. Impressive." 

"Thanks, you too," Bucky says before thinking, and as if the heat ain't bad enough, he goes bright red. "Ah! I mean, no—not that you're not nice—no, wait that's…" 

Nat snorts unattractively in the front seat.

Sam is staring at him, head tilted sideways, and that ridiculous grin is back on his face.

Bucky takes a deep, deep breath and closes his eyes, "I mean, thank you, what about you?" and mutters, "jesus fuck," under his breath as Sam readies to answer him.

"Got it," he says, nodding, so confidently and comfortingly that Bucky hardly feels like a fool. "And yeah, 'bout two years." his expression is still amused, but it's also kind of sweet and soft now.

"Nice," Bucky says, deliberately, and smiles back at Sam.

Sam surprises him by laughing, rough, and full and warm.

And Bucky just stares. 

The lab is cooler since it's a couple of stories below ground. His cheeks finally catch a break, and Bucky tries his absolute best to act like the professional he is.

But on the way to the examination room, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the vending machine glass. And yeah, no wonder Sam's been so amused- Bucky's still got the pink sunscreen smears on his face. For god's sake.

While frantically rubbing it off, he leads Sam over to the metal slab where they've laid the tablet out under fluorescents with a tray of tools beside it. 

"The best I could make out was the word 'existence' possibly 'life' but it could be some variant though, and radars were off the charts, so we got reason to believe it's extraterrestrial."

"Hmm." Sam has already taken off his jacket and hung it by the door; he's now just in that tight t-shirt clinging on for dear life around his biceps. He snaps on some protective gloves, circling the table, "How old did you say?" 

"Oh.. uh, twenty-five in March—" 

Sam's eyebrow goes up, and his tongue wets his mouth corner. 

"You mean the artifact." Bucky flushes bright red in an instant.

"I mean the artifact." Sam confirms, but he's holding back a smile again. 

"Right. Yeah." He needs to get a grip real quick, "We determined about a century worth of erosion on the surface."

Sam lifts the tablet and weighs it in his hand. His thumb slides along the width, "It's thick," he comments and immediately looks up at Bucky. His pretty eyes sparkle with devilry, clearly waiting for another inappropriate answer from Bucky.

Bucky snorts, shakes his head and gestures zipping his lips. Not this time. 

"Yeah, look, it's old." Sam spends some time running his fingers over the scriptures—three neat lines below one another—and finally looks up at Bucky, "But this ain't anything special." 

Bucky does a double-take, "I'm sorry, what?" 

Sam lays the tablet down again, "Come here," he motions to Bucky. 

He just about stumbles over his own feet, trying to get close. _Embarrassing._ At least Sam doesn't seem to notice. 

Bucky shuffles in beside him, tucks a stubborn strand of hair behind his ear, which just springs free again, then leans down to see what Sam's showing him. 

But Sam looks at him for a second, long enough that Bucky wonders what he's done this time, and then Sam smiles, turning away. 

"See this?" he brushes a finger over the first scripture.

"Yeah, the 'existence' one." 

"Live. Roughly translated, of course, but it's a very casual vernacular." 

"Like slang?" Bucky asks, internally stumbling again when Sam looks at him. 

"Yeah, kind of. This one," Sam says, fingering over the next line, "Laugh." 

Bucky frowns, "... okay…"

And now Sam's full-on smiling, pulling off the rubber gloves, "Any guesses what the last one's gonna be?" 

Bucky closes his eyes, "Oh no…" 

"Yeah, it's—" 

"Don't say it." Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose.

"—an alien Live Laugh Love sign, man." 

Bucky drops his head back, stares at the fluorescents. Perhaps it'll temporarily blind him, and they'll have to carry him off the base in a stretcher. It'll be less humiliating than explaining to Phillips that he unearthed a goddamn basic alien wall decoration. 

"Oh. Fuck me," he sighs.

"Well… I'd like to take you out for a drink first, but—"

"Wait. What?!" Bucky says, but way too high like he swallowed a squeaky toy.

Sam snickers, leans back against the counter and folds his arms over his chest. And good fucking god, that's… that's something.

"If that's something you'd want," he says, with a leopard's certainty that has already caught the deer. 

Bucky's mouth is  _ dry. _

And before he can answer, Natasha pops her head in the door, looking from Bucky to Sam then back at Bucky.

"Philips wants an update; he's got National Geographic on the line," she says.

"Oh, he _really_ doesn't want this update," Bucky mumbles, dropping his head. 

Nat looks at Sam, then, "You staying the night? There's a nice bar couple of tumbleweeds away. Have a drink with us?" 

Bucky feels Sam's eyes on him. 

"I happen to be waiting for Barnes' answer myself," he says. 

Natasha's expression is a mixture of fake shock and impressed. 

Bucky shrugs, "Live Laugh Love, right?" 

And Sam laughs again, making a hollowness swoop low Bucky's stomach. Then fixes him with a promising look and something deeply satisfied in his eyes.

As Sam leads him out of the room with his hand on Bucky's lower back, he thinks despite this utter failure of a day, it might not be completely unsalvageable.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! catch me on tumblr too! [glittercake](https://glittercake.tumblr.com/)


End file.
